Patricia Cornwell - Blow Fly

The cars in the driveway are a new white Mercedes 500 AMC and an older-model white Volvo. The Mercedes was not here last night. He doesn't know who it belongs to and doesn't have time or means to run the Louisiana plate. The Volvo belongs to Eveline Guidon, or at least it did six years ago. Grateful for dark clothing, Benton freezes like a deer behind a thick, dripping tree when the front door of the mansion opens. He crouches low, completely out of view, about fifty feet to the left of the front steps.

U.S. Attorney Weldon Winn walks out, talking in his usual booming voice, more obese than when Benton last laid eyes on him. Expecting him to climb into his expensive car, Benton thinks fast. Weldon Winn's being here isn't according to plan but certainly is a bonus. It strongly hints that Jean-Baptiste Chandonne has sought or will seek asylum at his family's Baton Rouge stronghold, a plantation of incredible corruption that has escaped suspicion for decades because the people associated with it are either completely loyal or dead.

Benton, for example, is dead.

He watches Baton Rouges despicable U.S. Attorney follow an old brick walkway to an old stone building with a dark Gothic door that leads down into the wine cellar, the centuries-old cave, almost half a mile of convoluted tunnels dug by slaves. Winn unlocks the door, steps inside and shuts it behind him. Benton moves swiftly in a crouch, soaking wet by now, ducking behind the cover of boxwoods, glancing repeatedly from the wine cellar to the house. His riskiest move is his next. He walks casually, upright, his back to the house.

Should anyone look out the window, the man in black may very well appear to be a Chandonne friend. The door is thick oak, and he barely makes out voices behind it.

SCARPETTA CANT RELEASE Albert Dard from her mind. She imagines the scars on his little body and is well aware that self-mutilation is an addiction, and if he continues hurting himself it seems likely that he will be committed to psychiatric hospitals again and again until he becomes as mentally ill as those patients whose diagnoses justify their being institutionalized.

Albert Dard doesn't need to be committed. He needs help. He needs for someone to at least attempt to find out why his anxiety increased so severely a year ago that he shut down, repressed his feelings and perhaps memories to such an extreme that now he needs self-inflicted pain to experience control, a brief release and an affirmation of his own existence. Scarpetta recalls the boy's almost dissociated state on the plane while he played with trading cards, violent ones relating to an ax. She envisions his extreme distress at the thought of no one meeting him, of an abandonment that she doubts is anything new.

With each passing moment, she becomes increasingly angry at those who are supposed to take care of him and frightened for his safety.

Digging inside her pocketbook as she drinks coffee in Dr. Laniers guest house, she finds the telephone number she wrote down when Albert waited for an aunt who did not intend to pick him up, but orchestrated events so that Scarpetta would take care of him. It no longer matters what manipulations or conspiracies were on Mrs. Guidon's mind. Perhaps it was all a lure to get Scarpetta to that house to see what she knows about Charlotte Dard's death. Perhaps Mrs. Guidon is now satisfied that Scarpetta knows nothing more about the death than has ever been known.

She dials the number and is startled when Albert answers the phone.

"It's the lady who sat next to you on the plane," she says.

"Hi!" he greets her, surprised and very pleased. "How come you're calling me? My aunt said you wouldn't."

"Where is she?"

"I don't know. She went outside."

"Did she leave the house in her car?"

"No."

"I've been thinking about you, Albert," Scarpetta says. "I'm still in town, but I'm leaving soon, and wondered if I could come by for a visit."

"Now?" The thought seems to make him happy. "You'd come see just me?"

"Would that be all right?"

He eagerly says it would.

BENTON QUIETLY, CAREFULLY OPENS the wine cellar door, his Sig Sauer drawn and cocked as he stands to one side of the narrow opening.

The conversation just beyond stops, and a male voice says, "You didn't shut it all the way."

Feet sound on steps, maybe five steps, and a hand, most likely Weldon Winn's, pushes the door to shut it, and Benton pushes back hard, the door opening wide and knocking Winn down the steps, where he lies, shocked and groaning, on the stone floor. Whoever he was talking to had seconds, no more, to flee down another set of steps. Benton can hear the person running fast, getting away, but there is nowhere for him-perhaps Jean-Baptiste-to go. The cave has an entrance and no exit.

"Get up," Benton says to Winn. "Slowly."

"I'm hurt." He looks up as Benton stands on the top step, shutting the door behind him, while he keeps the pistol pointed at Winn's chest.

"I don't give a goddamn if you're hurt. Get up."

Benton takes off his baseball cap and tosses it on top of Winn. Recognition is slow, then Winn's face blanches and his lips part as he lies twisted on the floor, tangled in his own raincoat, staring in horror.

"It can't be you," he says in awe. "It can't be!"

All the while this is going on, Benton listens for footsteps, for whoever escaped. He hears no one.

The small, windowless space has a cobweb-covered naked lightbulb overhead and a small, very old cypress table, covered with dark rings left by the countless bottles of wine that were tasted in here. Walls are damp stone, and attached to the one on the left of Benton are four iron rings in eyebolts. They are very old, but most of the rust is worn off. Nearby on the floor are coils of yellow nylon rope and an electrical receptacle.

"Get up," Benton says again. "Who else is down here? Who were you just talking to?"

The injured Weldon Winn moves with surprising agility as he suddenly rolls on the floor and pulls out a gun from under his coat.

Benton shoots him twice, once in the chest, once in the head, before Winn can even get his finger on the trigger. Gunshots are muffled by stone.

MARINO'S PERSONAL PAYLOAD is enough to slow the helicopter by five knots.

Lucy isn't concerned. In this weather, she wouldn't push her machine up to maximum speed. There is no point in rushing to run into an antenna, and antennas are all over the place, rising out of swirling fog that makes the hairline obstacles and their strobes almost impossible to see in the distance. Lucy flies at five hundred feet, the conditions worse than they were when they took off in Baton Rouge twenty minutes ago.

"I don't like this," Marino's nervous voice sounds in Lucy's headset.

"You're not the one flying. Relax. Enjoy the flight. Can I get you anything, sir?"

"How 'bout a fucking parachute?"

Lucy smiles as both she and Rudy keep up their scan outside the cockpit.

"You mind if I let go of the controls for a minute?" she says to Rudy for Marino's benefit.

"You're shitting me!" Marino yells.

"Ouch." Lucy turns down the volume in her headset while Rudy takes the controls. "It's your ship." She repeats the standard line, ensuring that the other pilot knows for a fact that he's supposed to be flying at that precise moment.

Turning a small knob on her emergency watch, she changes the upper display to chronograph mode.

Nic has never been up in a helicopter, and she tells Marino to stop making matters worse.

"If we aren't safe with them," Nic says, "we aren't safe with anyone. Besides, you're more likely to get hit by a car than crash in this weather."

"That's a bunch of shit. There ain't no cars up here. And I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't use the crash word."